Sunday, October 23, 2005

Irish Poetry had an outing on the evening of Thursday 13 October in the Dublin writers centre, where the main event of a five day Irish language arts bash occurred. The IMRAM festival of native literature decamped for the night to witness the gifts of Welsh poets Menna Elfyn, Ifor ap Glyn and Irish/German poet Gabriel Rosenstock, read poems. Elfyn read her work in Welsh and English, ap Glyn read his in Welsh alone, and Rosenstock read translations of both of their poems in Irish.

I have an absence of both languages, but this made no difference to my full appreciation of these three poets. And although Rosenstock was on duty wearing a two hatted stance of festival organiser and reciter, he was on great form all round and exuded a sense of the wider positive affirmation poetry brings to its initiates and submittants. The Welsh visitors were greatly moved by the warmth of welcome from their fellow celts; and just before the book buy and sign atmosphere began at the termination of the reading several poets came all over a bit goo goo’ish about the shared culture and genes. "We are of one blood" was the wrap up line; and with that the business of cracking open the gargle began in earnest.

ap Glyn has some seriously good word think ups which fulfill the Amergin attributed "binding principle" of "good poetic construction", and he also has a unique bardic register of suburban concerns which amply demonstrate his competency to fill the hot seat throne at Cymru's poetry flame HQ. Being reared in London to speak Welsh makes him a pretty rare breed, and he quoted a Welsh historian whose name I omitted to write, as I sat there nicking what sounds struck me as they moved through the air of that Augustan room, where the colour brown has been newly rolled upon the walls once aqua green, and where many a phoney and artist have made their stand and wowed or bored whatever audience was there.

And whilst I am unaware if the paint job was commissioned especially for this night, I would not be in the slightest surprised where it the case; for another interior development had also occurred, the stationing of tables with, as I recall, tasteful tablecloths upon which the audience could lay there glasses. Usually you have to use the floor, or abstain until the readings end and then join the rest of the throng or thin crowd supping vertical.

The Welsh historian ap Glyn mentioned, famously said of his homeland -

"Wales is an artefact we have to make and remake every generation, if we want"

And ap Glyn is certainly committed to doing this and his beatiful poems show that he is doing it in a vital and vibrant way, the true voice obvious and "there", as Paula Meehan would say. Also true to his poetical heritage, he was completely off the page; all his work being delivered by memory, which demostrates his complete commitment to the poet's craft, which I suspect is more than just a job to pay the rent, certainly his life's passion. We had a brief chat after the do and I told him that he must be a pretty unique bird and have the London-Welsh poet market stitched up. Born to Welsh parents in London until 20 years of age and then Wales till now, over 20 years later. He was chatty enough but not really a full throttle social butterfly, unlike Rosenstock, who took my hand and chaunted an ancient bit of verse by way of sussing my credentials. After I spun him a faith poem he declared that fate had decreed our paths would cross; that our lives were intersecting at that point not only because we were both having a few snifters. I told him he was correct and picked his brain about my "Cauldron of Poesie" ideas, and we both agreed that everyone had it wrong but us.

Unfortunately I have no ap Glyn work at hand at this moment, as I sit in the office here at Indisub Internet cafe on the Quays, although I do at home, and I may return to this later, but at the moment I need to tell you of a more recent event, which took place this evening.

Four members of the Irish Poetry team have been performing their work in Temple Bar, at the weekly, Sunday "Speakers Corner", drawing a fair sized crowd and aiding those less fortunate than themselves find their voice. After we all randomly bumped into each other in Temple Bar Square and did our bit for the public, several marginalized voices were inspired by our performance and found their confidence and had their say; as they supped their gargle and staggered befuddled up onto the staging. Yes, the homeless drink gang whose native spot is Temple Bar, where they live the simple life of sitting with a cup, day in, day out, wind rain or shine, waiting for the off-licence to open so they can get their ale in and begin the day in true dosser style knocking it back without much of a break.

These voices where the perfect foil with which to ply our peal, and the loudness of register and overall audience reaction was very positive. Bemused English people on their weekend pissups stopped and gawped unable to take it in. Spanish/Italians/German/French/Dutch/Polish and a veritable United Nations of gawkers, found the true bardic vibe was alive and well here in the heart of that place they know from…erm the telly and that, where everyone’s begorra begod, but a right laugh on the ale. Yes, they found the Ireland of their dreams was real; bards on street corners knocking it out full belt, causing them and their European fellows to make a wish that they could take the week off work in Holborn, the Hauge Huddersfield or East Ham and stay longer to wallow in the vibe. After the show at speakers corner Noel Sweeney had to make tracks to the Auld Dub pub, but Mr Incredible (Ciaron Philpots) myself, and God (Mike from Meath) executed the busking. This is the first time I’ve worked with God on the streets, but Mr Incredible and I have been occassional colleagues on a number of occasions. During the early part of the summer myself, he and Theolophis, an LA poet here for a few months, worked the magic together and kicked started the Irish Poetry commitment to bringing quality work to the audience direct.

Theolophis’s leaving party was the first time the gang got evangelical, an atmosphere I imagine would have been the norm for Jack and Allen Ginsberg when they had their beat school bashes, ram jammed with a poetry loving set of misfits reality could not invent. This was a night no one who was there will ever forget. Raven, Theo, Mr Incredible, Sweeney, God, Jerry, Fintan, Birch and too many others to fill a list. This July night marked the arrival of something special, much in the mould of what Menna Elfyn said, just before being informed that Welsh and Irish Language poets were "of one blood".

She said that poetry is "affirmation"; much the same as Heaney and all the poets who had, and have; what Brendan Behan believed was essential for a poet to possess, "a loving heart."

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Having been active in creative protests and direct actions addressing the rights of the dispossessed in my native California, upon moving to Ireland I became interested in the history and plight of the travellers. I have only lived here for seven months, and it has been shocking to me that the Irish, a people once so maligned, marginalised and persecuted in their own country, would turn and do the same to their own -- in their own country. I do not say this as an indictment of the Irish; as a newcomer I do not have the right and I am sure that in my limited understanding of the issues regarding the travellers I may be mistaken on some of the finer points. But I have seen the same and worse in my own country often enough to recognise prejudice and the anger/violence it strikes up in people who are afraid, distrustful of or perhaps simply embarrassed by elements in their society that they feel are not in accordance with the social norms.

The xenophobia that exists in Ireland is by far a milder variety than that cultivated in the United States; Ireland doesn't have the same history of utilising racism as a means of maintaining a capitalist structure ( a comic strip I read once back home had Uncle Sam saying "We don't practice racism... we've perfected it!") The variety that does exist here, however, has existed long before the rapid influx of immigrants, and I dare say may represent a kind of self-hatred -- because the faces of the travellers are the faces of the Irish. As an African American, sadly I have witnessed this same kind of attitude amongst middle and upper class blacks with regard to their sisters and brothers in the ghettos. Indeed, it is an attitude which poisons even some in the ghettos. I have witnessed the same here in working class people who have voiced a hatred for the travellers that is perplexing only when the surface is seen. Dig deeper.

As for the poem itself, my wife and I were engaged in several conversations over the course of many weeks regarding the travellers, the historical plight of the Irish in general and her family's place in that history (she's Scots-Irish); those conversations were the genesis of much of the imagery in this piece:

Murder of Crows

Fly from herethis land is steeped in alcoholthe fermented borders of the whiskey road make a man's feet drunkand the finish overstays its welcome on the tongue, like the biting backwash of light from houses where you and your own are unknown

Welcome to the verging rain; those facesthe torrent broken reflections of what will not be forgottenhuddled on the edges of the black pool

Without you we spin like the taught and tarred skins of coracles in that dark eddyand history becomes what oracles tell: the secrecy of owls in their nocturnal parliamentthe murder of crows in their riotthe shrieking jackdaw and magpie in their arc across the verdant rise to fill their bellies on scorn

Many deny but all know the taste of itin the hard crust of our daily breadand all the things a mountain of butter cannot rectify

Techniques we have come to possess and will deploywith varying degrees of success, failure, loss and benifitin the aquiring of skills which increase the consumptionalcapacity of our appetite for language

until such time that we feel capable of, metaphoricallyeating the alphabet

a goal acheivable in 15 years hence

when we dream of scoffing knowledge on lingo bingesfeasting on linguistical farelashing our eyes full of letter noshsucking soundgrub into our ear's gut

and ingesting text for regurgitation to "other" voiceswho passenger on the shuttlebus of love;

where we are all gourmets gorging on blatherin one united assotment of sound, from

a quick smooth swoosh of solid reliable speed hulkshurtling into a deep unconscious order of unkowable tune, to

whose jolts can compact galaxies to blackholes vacuum packed with an absence of time

tracing our concept mark of living as one with the infinite mind;

and bestowing by its thrumb seer gifts of prophetic possessionto some poetic depositers of text, be it printed or binary coded opticledata bits travelling through fibre to gozzy gawp gawk fests yet to begin.

We are the knocker uppers tapping on the window pane of literaturefitting up the page with poesy of all genre and form

And between these two extremitiesis life itself replicating and assembling its note of busynessdemanding access to profess that you wanderround the kitchen like a two bit twok till all fromBallymum to Ballsbridge sing

Friday, October 07, 2005

Here's a thing from a kids book I never wrote. There's this sort of creepy reclusive Willy Wonka figure who's been held captive most of his life by his wicked uncle who has persuaded him of the evil of the outside world. So this is his song:

Fred Farkle’s Fear of the Outside World

Outside is very cold and very dark; And goblins squat and air-spurred spectres ride;Killers fill the shadows in the park, And in street corners, murderers reside. The wind whips savagely and, cutting wide,Raises deadly creatures hid from sight, Who slink and creep and plot and snarl and slide.The demon dances blackly through the night.

The dogs howl blood and poisonous the bark Of stunted trees to sick birds, mucus-eyedFrom weariness and horror and the stark Evil of nature bleached and terrified. The ghastly air blows thin, a deathly brideWed fast to Plague too thick to let in light. And through it all in screeching wrath and pride,The demon dances blackly through the night.

This is my only refuge, this my ark To keep me from the wicked blood-dimmed tideAnd thick-lunged horror, sick seas where the shark And strangling snake and slimy spirits glide. So here I am, and here I must abide,Where I am safe and things are warm and bright; For out there, mad, with evil by his sideThe demon dances blackly through the night.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Now that's what I call entertainmentwe're witnessing history in the makingwritten by the winners and thepeople who say wherever thereis money to be made it'sall there for the taking

You may have read about it inthe papersthere's kids trained on arcadegames and space invaderswho get target practice at homeaiming pistols at theirplaystations, and now they'retaking all their orders fromGeorge Walker Texas Ranger

knowing that if they don't doas they're told they'll getcalled traitors, even if it meansthey'll be hated by their neighbours

but why on earth should they carethey're laughing in the face of dangerdoing what they do best just tomake the world a little safer

So when they get killed crippledor decorated and some of the soldiersstart to wonder where thehell the parade is, they'll have tolearn the hard way that it's beengoing on for ages, that there'slots of money to be made in a warthat rages

so who pays the price?who's the hole in their pocket?because someone's loss is alwayssomeone else's profit

It happens right in front of usbut we don't watch itjust shit Bruce Willis filmsthat make a killing at the box office

I don't mind preaching to the choirwhen freedom fries in friendlyfire, time after time it's nosurprise, it's an eye for an eyeuntil we all go blind

This summer's biggest blockbustersdon't have big name stars or muchof a budget, just a bunch of banditswith camcorders and swords andsome heads to chop off on thecutting room floor

We never give in to kidnappers'demands, if we don't pay themransom we won't look that badbecause we know that the rest ofthe world understands and togetherwe can all wash the blood from our hands

But as for the Arabs we have otherplans, they'll be smoked out ofevery right hole in the landtill we're sure that they're all dead and buried in sand

where one day our big businessskyscrapers will standit's hard not to seperate factfrom fiction when faced with amonkey like man on a mission

a leader who learned all abouthis religion from Mel Gibsonfilms with his evengalismwhose not even capable oftaking his own decisionswhether it's abortion or killingpeople in prisons

He's about the right size anddaddy's shoes fit himif he's going down he's takingall of us with him

I don't mind preaching to the choirwhen freedom fries in friendlyfire, time after time it's nosurprise, it's an eye for an eyetill we all go blind

Cameras can shoot nothing worsethan the truth, it's a tooth fora tooth, we've the pictures forproof, and it's coming home toroost, so that's all left to dois dig up Bob Hope for a moraleboost

Yeah GI Joe is gonna have to dosome explaining, coz photos ofabuse by troops sold a load ofnewspapers and caused a sensationacross all of the stations

Just think what a third world warwould do for the ratingsyou may have read about it in thenewspapers, there's kids trainedon arcade games in space invaderwho get target practice at home aiming pistols at theirplaystations, and now they'retaking orders from George WalkerTexas Ranger.

Leo Crowley

A couple of new voices turn up at the now Monday night warble poetry open mic/workshop, upstairs at the Duke pub, Duke Street, second left off Grafton Street as you walk up from Molly Malone's bronze figure. It's a few down from Phil Lynots one outside the Bruxelle Street boozer of the same name.

This was a few weeks ago when the Monday night session was on Tuesday at the Left Bank Bar, Oliver St John Gogarty's Pub, before the move to another past heartland of Dublin literary life still in use as an art mine and gallery where occur theatrical displays of poetic performance by writers today learning the art of "earning a ryhme", as Mossbawn's bard calls the business of "professing poetry", an occupation one stressed "I" lighter than "prophesying," which is an interesting word I hope to write 3000 words on and deliver from the podium at a poetics conference in at The Disembodied Impossible Poetic College of Higher Education, very soon becoming a university, so effectively I'm going to a University next summer, and one of the topics up for potential blathering on about is "Prophets and seers". A 3000 word essay read from the page and a potential 20 minute tour de force piece of stagework work for the actor prepared to memorise his text.

But what are "prophets and seers" and do I have to be either one or both? Do these positions involve altering the mind through drugs or chewing flesh of some kind? Do I have to deliver prohecy in order to book the hotel? Will I have to make any explicit predictions during the address, and if so can I get away with making up an episode of divine inspiration if one is not forthcoming between now and then?

I will prepare by reading George Calder's 1917 translation of the Irish text "Auraicept Na N-eces/Scholars Primer"; which I have been wanting to lay my hands on for some time, but have been unable to because of laziness and the general difficulties involved in finding a copy at public libraries.

I know none of its contents, although I have a very dim idea that it was some kind of basic bardic instruction text used in the numerous pre-17C civil judiciary academies were the lawyer/poets with a flare for analysising words, trained in acquiring skills which increased the consumption capacity of their appetite for language, until they were capable of (metaphotically speaking) eating the alphabet

I stumbled across Eryn Laurie Rowan's translation of an Amergin attributed poem she has titled "The Cauldron of Poesy," which appears in the "Auraicept Na N-eces/Scholars Primer."

I will have to wait until I have a copy of Calder's book to compare his version with Rowan's, but as a stand alone poem this is an interesting and accessible read, whose narrative, or more accurately, its ruling poetic of "binding principle", lays out what is essentially an explanation of why not every poet's compositional methods will advance to a point where their skill of practice draws from the higher poetic grades or "streams" that have traditionally been associated with prohecy.

But all this is for another time and will not be of interest to the general poetry buff only wanting to wallow in the shallow end of poesy's pool, and a book I can recommend for the paddlers who are drawn to light literary entertainment is Anthony Cronin's aptly titled "Memoir," first published in 1976. It's a riotous assemblage of memory, jolting back to life Patrick Kavangh, Brendhan Behan, Julian Maclaren-Ross, the painters Robert MacBryde and Robert Colquhoun and Brian O'Nolan, who wrote under the pseudonyms of Flann O'Brien, Myles na Gopaleen (Myles of the Small Horses) and George Knowall.

Brian O'Nolan, a notorious man of the forties and fifties hit the bigtime of his literary success as a brilliant new writer; a recent University College Dublin graduate whose absurdist style of satirical fiction appeared in various newspapers and books during the course of his life, up until his death in 1966. He is painted by Cronin as a stickler and straight man who had been knocking about Dublin as a literary heavyweight from the 1920's, and he enters Cronin's full tapestry of gags around the time the poet had become a qualified barrister ready to strut his stuff as a member of the recently independant Irish judiciary. However Cronin's big break was not to be into the courts or law rooms of 1940's Dublin, but an office job in retail considered a good number for a man of his prospects and station in mid 40's Ireland. However Cronin only wishes to become an artist and so withdraws from from pursuing a commercial career, eventually washing up in a back garden shed, one of a sucession of residences he shared with Brendan Behan.

Behan's paternal grandfather was a music hall artist who had written Irelands national anthem and passed on the musical gift to his grandson, who breaks into boistrous boozing sessions with Cronin and into the story right at the start, offering his own literary ambition as succour to Cronin's, and in their quest of becoming writers, embark on an alcohol fuelled grand tour to renaissance sites in order, they hope, to suck up Art's vibe at source. The only problem they have is an absence of money with which to fully execute, what turns out to be Behan's masterplan of defecting to Chekoslavakia, in an effort to acquire instant confirmation as capitalism rejecting artists in search of worldwide success. Behan's scheme is revealed to Cronin once the sojourn has reached France, but after a spell of days in Paris they split their seperate ways under a cloud of mutual annomosity; immediately dispelled after a few weeks of Cronin hitch hiking to Northern Italy and hearing, upon making his way back to Ireland through Paris, his name being called by Behan. Behan fills in Cronin on what happened since they last spoke, of him joining the Foreign Legion for a night and being allowed to keep his signing on bounty as he left the following day.

They are both nearly broke; Cronin more so than Behan, but pleased at the prospect of a joint return to Dublin they go on the lash and doss under a bridge for a few days whilst waiting for a mystery benefactor Behan claims wants to give him money. Whilst under the bridge Croinin paints one of the funniest scenes to enter my mind, when he wakes to find his size 11 shoes missing and has to slide around his small area under the bridge for three days sheltering from the constant downpours in the spare size 6 pair Behan had brought along for the defection party when he crossed the Border in Austria, whilst Behan runs round the city on the scrounge. Eventually he gets a touch from who may be Simone deBeauvoir and Cronins foot saviour leaves a miracle by the side of the road to Rouen as they are leaving Paris, in the form of a discarded pair of cut off wellingtons.

They return to Ireland and carry on chasing the muse in McDaids Pub, The Palace, the Duke and numerous other watering spots in the city, where Kavanagh steps into their orbit, as a poet approaching middle age and a descent into alocoholism. Rather than rehash it here, go, read the book and let me tell you of Leo Crowley and his pal Aiden, who did an excellant duet after Leo did the above poem, which reminded me of Amiri Baraka's mid 70's marxist stuff. They came along because they had bumped into the rest of the Left Bank locals at the Saul Willimas memorisational poetry show at Crawdaddy in Dublin the week before.

The duet was called "No Show" and was delivered balanced at the precise centre of the dividing line between speech and song, which I had not witnessed before in any living persons in such intimate terms.

"Tonight tonight to

L - Well we couldn't catch a train there was a nation wide rail strikeso we caught a cab because the taxi blinked a tail light andwe got aboard a bus and gave ourselves a little high five

A - Well I had to man because I couldn't take the stage fright

L - Hold tightA - Come on alrightL - We got a play a gig tonightA - I know I knowL - I know you knowA - Well then shut up and let me goL - RelaxA - I am relaxedL - Well then relaxA - Just shut up and get off my backL - Oh what, you don't have to shout like that

A - Push the button for us all to be dropped at the next stopL - We hopped off at the wrong stop, walked and got lostA - Found ourselves broke without a penny to tossL - In our livesA - In our pocketsL - How do we cover the cost

Oh how did we ever get ourselves into this

A - I don't knowL - Well keep an eye out while I'm taking a pissA - I think you should have thought about it more before you made a mess of thingsL - I didn'tA - Yes you did and now we're gonna miss the gig

Oh no you know you know you knowtonight it's gonna be a no show

You know you know you know you knowtonight it's gonna be a no show

A - Well maybe we should call upon the band to help usL - They're probably on stage right now doing a sound checkA - What d'yer wanna tell 'emL - Tell 'em wind up the crowdA - But how they gonna do that

Errrryeeer

You're right we'll have to get ourselves together and gocoz we don't wanna be no no show

Bliuppp Bliuppp

It's the lads

You know you should have been here 'bout and hour ago?

Well we'd be there right now if we were any way professionalbut I guess we're not as tight as we might like

You'd better not be expecting me to take all the blame

oh real mature Aidan

The alternative to mainstream poetry possee of Dublin

We did a Patrick Kavanagh celebration 2005 in the Palace Bar Dublin, which is where he held court with the hacks and Leanne O'Sullivan and Maurice Scully came along. The night was about putting established and emerging artists on the same bill and to this end it went great. We all ended up back at gods place (ie mike from meath due to his flowing locks) having a poem session, and the night brought home some powerful realisations, namely that poetry is ultimately about a basic human need of wanting to belong and be loved.